by Lisa Williams
whisky sour
The rumble of thunder woke her, not her usual alarm. The
room felt odd, the air smelt different, like it wasn’t her apartment. She
reached for her phone, her hand found a collection of pill bottles that toppled
from the nightstand.
As she sat up a sense of dread crept across her skin.
Late for work.
A vague remembering of the day before.
She grabbed clothes on her way to the bathroom. Her phone
lay smashed on a kitchen worktop, she didn’t notice the missing knife in the
block.
It was next to the bath.
Where her lifeless body lay.
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